


Blink

by englandwouldfalljohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Angst, Blogging, John Watson's Blog, M/M, Morse Code, Plot Twists, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, References to Depression, References to Suicial Ideation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn
Summary: When John attempts to write his blog entry after Sherlock’s fall, his cursor begins acting strangely...
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 17
Kudos: 56
Collections: Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes, ~~the man I loved,~~ is dead. |

John Watson stared at what he had typed, unable to breathe. He could not even admit it to himself without a strike through, and with it, he could hardly bear the twist of grief in his chest. He had lost friends, enemies, comrades in arms. John had lost motility in his shoulder, had lost his sense of self for a time. Truth be told, he had almost lost his life more than once. All of it had been worth the wound for _him,_ Sherlock Holmes. The man that John Watson…

‘No.’ He couldn’t bear it, and so he wouldn’t. He would not tell the world, or Ella. He would not tell the glass of scotch that consoled him each evening, nor the pillow that absorbed his coward’s tears. He raised a finger, let it hover over the backspace key, and then—his cursor disappeared. Blink, bliiink, it said. That was odd. Blink, bliiink, blink blink. Fuck, this couldn’t be happening. John ran to grab a paper, waited for it to cycle around. Blink, bliiink, it said again. Blink, bliiink, blink blink. Blink blink. Blink blink blink bliiink. Blink.

John felt the tears streaming down his face as the code became undeniable. He just stared on in awe. 

A. L. I. V. _Blink._


	2. Chapter 2

John writhed, fists pounding at the mattress, sheets tangling around his leg. The scotch he had drunk before the empty fireplace throbbed in his veins, twisting his dreams into grotesques of the times that were, the times that he had believed for six months never would be again. He had been too afraid to light the fire, despite a persistent chill in the flat. He knew what he was like when he took to drink; he had Mrs Hudson’s safety to think of. 

Winter lingered over a grey, lifeless London. There were ghosts in all the doorways, spirits lurking down every alley. Haunted, Ella had called him. She couldn’t know, couldn’t imagine what it was like. Two days he had been waiting. Fifty-two hours before he had finally stumbled up the stairs into his bed. Mycroft had listened to his story, had heard the hope and terror in his voice, and had hung up without a word. Bereft, John had done the only thing he knew to do—soldier on, with a side eye on his Sig. 

The tinny ring of his mobile shocked him out of his fitful sleep.

‘Dr Watson.’ The voice at the other end of the line was clipped, and John could hear the anxious purse of lips. ‘I believe we need to have a talk about… before.’


	3. Chapter 3

That Mycroft would choose this, of all places, to meet proved that he was either a sadist or as prone to dramatics as Sherlock, or perhaps both. John had approached the building from the far side, entered through another wing and made his way through the blindingly white corridors rather than risk the simpler—and altogether more devastating—route along the pavement skirting the edifice. He told himself it was to avoid the rain, but the folded umbrella clutched beneath white knuckles screamed out the truth. 

John’s nights, when he didn’t drink them into blackness, gave him enough turns across that driveway, enough hesitation and confusion and horror. He didn’t need to revisit it in the daylight, grey as that light may be today. And now, here he stood, in the one place he had dreamed of more than any other. He waited for Mycroft there, beneath the downpour, watching the clouds race past. A bitter wind whipped his hair into his eyes. He ought to have it cut, ought to have done months ago.

_Maybe tomorrow_ , he thought, looking over the edge. He didn’t dare get too close, or his wildest fantasy might come to fruition. A week ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice had he found himself here, where his life had effectively ended: on the rooftop of St Bart’s.


End file.
